The Next Round is On Me
by L. E. Wigman
Summary: One last night in a London pub and the parting of two friends. Post-war. PBA Winner: Bronze; Best Short General


Author's Note: This was supposed to be a continuation of my previous story, _The Last Plane Ride Home_. However, I think this one stands on its own.

Disclaimer: I don't own _Hogan's Heroes. _I am not making any profit off of this story.

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Newkirk sat in the pub waiting for his friend to return with their drinks. He watched the dim light from the street lamp create shadows on the broken cobblestones. He'd grown up on this street and it tore him up to see it like this. If he were being honest with himself, he recognize that a lot of things were tearing him up tonight. Namely, the fact that his best mate - a man he'd spent the last five years with - was going to be on a plane for Paris in an hour.

It got harder every time they'd done this. Colonel Hogan and Baker had been first. The Guv had received his orders shipping him back to Washington almost immediately. If the rumors were to be believed, he was head to the Pentagon where a promotion and new command awaited him. He, of course, had been tight-lipped. Once again reminding Newkirk that while Allies, and one might even consider them friends, they were in two different militaries. Baker had also kept mum; although anyone could see that in spite of the sadness of the parting, he was thrilled with whatever post Hogan had secured for him. They'd really lived it up that night, but all too soon it came to an end and the good-byes had to be said.

It was incredible how such a simple word could be so hard to say. How do you tell a man that had saved your life just how much respect you had for him? How grateful you were to be treated as an equal; despite knowing just how unequal you were to a man who'd changed the entire course of your life, and for once it had been changed for the better. How did you find the words to express all of that?

He'd finally settled for a thank you and best of luck. Even as he thought of it now it felt so underwhelming - lacking the breadth of emotion he truly felt. Oh well, he'd never been good at this emotion thing to begin with, so why change now?

It was even more difficult two weeks later when they gathered to drink to Carter's farewell. He was going back to the U.S with plans to be honorably discharged. It was all a matter of paperwork, but he had to go home. He had family he hadn't seen in years - how well Newkirk understood that! Carter only had one beer with him and LeBeau and then had quickly excused himself. Mavis was waiting. He was taking her for dinner then to the cinema. Carter promised to come back later that year… just as soon as things were settled with the Army and his family, he'd come to visit. You betcha, boy! Newkirk had watched him go - the sharp pang of loss was a bitter pill, but he washed it down with a pint.

Now it was LeBeau's turn. He couldn't quite explain it, but he felt as if everything was falling apart. He'd normally have been the type to land on his feet - roll with the punches - go with the flow… and so many other fitting analogies. But right now, he felt out of place. Like he didn't really belong anywhere. Sure Mam and the rest of the Newkirk clan had been tickled to see him, but he didn't fit back into his old spot.

The one spot he knew he fit into - an espionage group stationed in the middle of Germany - was long gone. And he'd never be able to go back to that life. It was the civilian world for him… He pulled a cigarette from his pack and lit it. The smoke calmed his nerves. Much like Carter, he'd be dismissed from service and likely soon. He didn't fancy going back to the circus. He loved the work, the flair of the art… but it lacked seriousness when he held it up against the work he'd been doing just a few months ago. He couldn't stomach the thought of forgery or safe cracking anymore; somehow, he'd found a dislike of the greed of it. Hogan's fault, he thought with a smirk.

A loud stream of French curses followed by hearty laughter pulled his attention to the bar. LeBeau stood there his uniform covered in alcohol, sputtering insults. Sensing the impending trouble, Newkirk stubbed out his fag and headed for the bar.

"You imbecile!" LeBeau said, finally switching to English. "You did that on purpose. You spilled my wine and you will buy me another!"

The man drew back in mocking surprise. "What's this? The frog wants more wine?" he said, before laughing it up with his friends.

Newkirk leaned against the bar casually, but kept alert. He knew his little mate well enough to know that he could handle his own fight. But he sure wasn't going to let some bastard's friends gang up on his oldest comrade.

LeBeau straightened up as tall as he could and though he only came up to the other man's chest, he cleared his throat. "I said," he shouted loudly to be heard over the cackling. "You will pay for the drink you spilled." He met Newkirk's gaze and gave him a nod which said everything Newkirk already knew: 'stay out of my fight'. The man turned and Newkirk could have groaned.

Ollie Dillman. He'd known Ollie back when they both still attended school. Their fathers worked and drank together, their families lived in the same building.

"Well," Ollie said, his eyes lighting up first with surprise and then a vicious look that Newkirk hadn't seen in quite some time. "If it ain't ol' Pun'kin Eater."

"Ollie."

Ollie was broader than he'd remembered, though his hair was still a sandy blond and eyes were bright blue. He thought back to the last time he'd seen Ollie - early '40 - right before he'd been shipped to France. They'd parted over a disagreement regarding his sister, who had just recently turned fifteen. Newkirk knew she'd had a crush on Ollie, but when he'd overheard Ollie telling his buddies what a fine figure of a girl Judy Newkirk was shaping into and how much fun he'd like to have with her… well, as Carter would say, he blew a gasket. He hadn't beaten Ollie, but certainly hadn't lost, either.

Ollie had lost any interest in LeBeau as he also leaned against the bar. "I heard your radio spot with Betty*," he said.

Newkirk's jaw clenched as Ollie's voice grated on him. Always one to be aware of his surroundings, he eyed the pub. The seething anger and bitter disgust that met him, was crushing. They had to know it wasn't his idea. They had to know he wouldn't do that, think that way, of his of own accord. LeBeau was also looking around the room. The tenor had completely shifted from uninvolved and even annoyed by the disturbance to very involved indeed. In fact, the term lynch mob came to mind.

"I don't want any trouble," Newkirk said lowly. He wasn't adverse to a pub brawl, but he'd rather the odds weren't quite so one sided.

"Hear that, lads?" Ollie said, "The traitor don't want no trouble."

No one was drinking their drinks, playing their cards, or even smoking. They all watched and waited. Waiting to see who would start the inevitable brawl and debating what to do next. LeBeau squared his shoulders and stepped between Newkirk and Ollie.

"You will not get out of paying for the drink you spilled... or are you English so unmannered as to not understand right and wrong."

Ollie sneered and attempted a surprise backhand which LeBeau not only expected but dealt with expertly, blocking the blow and delivering a quick jab. Ollie stumbled back into the waiting arms of his friends, blood spurting from his nose. His hand cupped his wounded appendage gingerly, and choked out, "You broke my nose, you bloody…"

"Oy!"

The owner - a grim, stout bear of a man with with grey hair and a scruffy beard - came around the bar, cricket bat in hand. His face was reddened and he spoke loudly so that it carried over the entire bar. "No fighting in me pub! You drink your drinks or get out," the owner leaned closer to Ollie, dropping his voice so that only they could hear. "You and your mates can stay and behave, or you can piss off."

Ollie's friends pulled him away toward the other corner of the room, while the owner told the keep to give LeBeau and Newkirk their money back. "I don't have nothing against you, Peter," he said, watching the coins fall into to LeBeau's hand. "But you're no good for business."

Newkirk nodded, "Ta. Let's go, mate."

Newkirk grabbed his coat from the stand by the door on his way out with LeBeau on his heels, casting a dirty look at Ollie. They walked down in silence for a few moments, LeBeau following Newkirk's lead. "They don't usually call me out directly out of respect for *Alfie and me da, but I hear the whispers," he said finally. He looked down and kicked a loose cobblestone in his path. "I feel eyes on me wherever I go."

"Surely your family…"

"They don't need me anymore, Louis. They've made lives for themselves. They have moved on… they're living in 1945 and I'm still stuck in 1940. Now that the Guv's whipped me into a halfway decent bloke, I'm not sure how to be anything else."

"Then why stay?"

Newkirk met his friend's question with a hesitation. The question hit squarely on the debate he'd had everyday since they'd come home. He shrugged his shoulders. "Where else is there?"

"Paris!" LeBeau growled in jest. "You and I will start the best establishment in the city. You will manage the customers and entertainment and I will manage the kitchen. We will be unstoppable, mon pote!"

The Frenchman's enthusiasm got to him, just like it always had these past five years, and he smiled in spite of himself.

"Listen," LeBeau said soberly. "I don't know what I will find when I go home. I don't know if I even have family left, but what I do know is that yours care for you and you will have a place, always. Even if it's a bit harder to find."

They continued walking toward the base as Newkirk digested this. Perhaps he was right. Just because they didn't need him to steal to put food in their mouths, didn't mean that they didn't need him at all. All he need was a new roll to fill. A new cause to back. They checked in through the gate and the familiar feeling of an impending end came back around. This time, though, he didn't feel like a man who was fighting against the current and losing. Sure, he still felt sadness, but also a sliver of hope. They reached the runway and the silence became to much.

"You saved my life, Louis. More times than I can count on the fingers of my hand. Merci beaucoup."

"Your accent is terrible," LeBeau said teasingly. "You stick to butchering the English language and I'll handle the French."

"Right, that's the last time you'll hear 'thanks' from me."

The plane holding LeBeau's battered duffel bag was just starting, the roar of the engines drowned out everything else. The others, French soldiers liaising with their Anglo Allies, heading back home for the first time since Dunkerque, were already boarding.

"Hey," he shouted over the engines. "Our next fight will be in Paris, oui?"

"The next round's on me," he hollered back, holding his hand out.

LeBeau took it, shaking hands with his friend. "Bonne chance, mon pote."

The End

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1.) *Berlin Betty, played by Antoinette Bower. Seen in the episode, _Is There a Traitor in the House?_

2.)* Alfie the Artist, a.k.a. Alfred Burke, played by Walter Burke. Seen in the episode, _The Safecracker Suite._


End file.
